


Love is Not a Vict'ry March

by nerdyydragon



Category: Kingsman (2014), Kingsman (2015), Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Gen, Legends, Magic-Users, Young Harry, eventual partial crossover, same age au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-14
Updated: 2017-10-07
Packaged: 2018-11-14 02:34:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11198643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerdyydragon/pseuds/nerdyydragon
Summary: In a land of myth and a time of magic....Wait, no. That's not quite right.The magic of the London underground has always been a mysterious entity, thriving beneath the city, and accessible only to few. It has long since faded from memory, a myth, nothing more than a legend lost to the ages. But time has a way of sharpening senses, granting gifts, and providing for those who need it most.





	1. Part I: These Rules Were Made To Bind

**Author's Note:**

> Anything you read here that you recognize in any way, as I'm sure you've learned, I don't own.

_ Sixteenth May, 1990 _

 If one were to read the morning paper, or to even glance through it on a whim, it could be found that on this particularly dreary spring morning, under announcements of birth, a small statement relaying the news of Henry Andrew Hart, born to parents Maria and Franklin Hart, at exactly four o’clock in the morning, and his healthy (albeit late) entry into the world. Now, babies are often assumed, one would think, to be troublesome, loud, and rather intrusive into the daily life of a couple married less than two years, especially ones accustomed to throwing lavish dinner parties and attending operas instead of hiring a nurse and rewriting wills. This was, however, a necessary adjustment, one made with more gusto than could be expected of people who had been up the night before suffering through the traumatics of labour.

If there was one thing that could be said about young Henry, even at the age of mere fourteen hours and twenty-seven minutes, it was that he enchanted everyone who laid eyes upon him, for he was not only a beautiful child, but he was also quiet to the point that one could completely forget he was in the room with them. That is, of course, until he was actually forgotten, or hungry, or bored. Then, and only then, would he utter anything more than a gurgle, and was usually accompanied by something flying out of his crib with more force than should be possible for someone less than a week old, and who could not even hold his head up. Whenever something like this would occur, his father would tut and gripe about how as soon as he was old enough to be taught manners, he would be stuffed into wool jackets and shoes with broguing and packed off to boarding school.

“He’s much too young to begin to consider sending him away,” his mother replied, like clockwork, and picked up her child from his crib and soothed his quiet rage, as if he knew he was being discussed as though he were not present. “Besides, he needs a governess first, and once he’s old enough to attend, we’ll look into schools.”

“Our boy will go to Eton, like I did.” Franklin insisted, and Maria would frown in subdued discontent, believing that her son was destined for bigger things than what this world could ever hope to offer him, knowing in her heart that her son was going to be special.

And special he was, indeed.

 

_ Twenty-third July, 1996 _

Not quite special enough to worm his way out of attending a family function, however. 

At the age of just over six years, Henry (now old enough to have earned himself a colloquialism in Harry) had gone through three nursemaids - the current one being a young woman by the name of Jackie - and garnered a reputation as an absolute hellion.

“Young Mister Hart, you get back here right now! I’m not going to ask you again!” Jackie cried from the bottom of the stairwell, listening for the tell-tale signs of childish giggling as to where her charge had hidden himself away this time. “Your father will not be pleased with you!” It was quiet for a moment, and then, from the coat room, a very soft  _ no  _ sounded. Tiptoeing around the wall, Jackie closed the door softly behind her and began to move coats and shoes out of the way in an attempt to locate the small boy, moving almost halfway around the room before having any luck.

“I’m up here, miss.” Whipping around, Jackie found the six year old grinning wildly, his hair a complete mess and dirt on his nose, seated comfortably with what seemed to be a storybook nearly as half as large as he was on a shelf six and a half feet from the ground.

“ _ How on earth  _ did you manage to get yourself up there, child?” She asked, making her way across the room to help him down. “I suppose you could have climbed, but not with that book.”

“I was hiding from mother and father. They want me to go out in the garden and play with the other children, but I just want to read my book. I came in here looking for a place to hide, a place where I could be away from everyone, and I was just up here on this shelf. It just happened, I swear.” Jackie planted her hands on her hips as the boy closed his book and made to hand it to her and, taking it from him, set it aside and spread her arms.

“Silly stories aside, you have to do as your father says, young man. Now get down here so we can get you cleaned up. Come on, jump.”

“You won’t tell?”

“I won’t if you won’t.” The boy scrunched his eyebrows in concentration but, much to Jackie’s pleasure, pitched himself off the shelf and into her arms. Setting him down, Jackie studied the book he had been reading:  _ Illustrated Histories of Great Britain: Volume Three.  _ The heavy leatherbound was embossed in gold and, from the looks of it, written in old English, but the cover gave her no other clues as to its contents. “Wherever did you find this?”

“It was in the library, near the far corner overlooking the woods. I almost dropped it getting it off the shelf, I sneezed so hard from the dust.”

“And what, my boy, would attract you to such a book?” Harry took the tome from her and, still walking up the stairs, flipped to the page he had been reading before he was interrupted. On the ancient-looking rice paper was a faded ink image of a sword driven near to the hilt in a split of rock.

“ _ This. _ ”

 

_ Third January, 2000 _

“But mum, I don’t  _ want  _ to run errands with you. Why can’t I just stay home?” Harry asked, dragging his feet down the hall as his mother waited impatiently by the door, purse in her hand. At the age of nearly ten, Harry had grown petulant - like many boys his age - and was struggling to wrap his head around the reasoning behind his mother taking him out into town with her, when he had plenty of means to entertain himself at the house.

“I’m not going to explain it again, Harry. You’re coming with me to town, and that’s final.” Maria Hart had reached her tolerance of her son’s nonsense and had finally put her foot down. “I know for a fact that if I leave you alone then all you’re going to do is sit locked in your bedroom with those books of yours. Your father worries that you won’t make the rugby team, since all you seem to do is read.” After the disaster that was the previous Christmas, involving three smashed ornamental vases, the overturning of a punchbowl, and nearly getting into a fight with his cousin after accidentally splashing his new coat with mud under the pretext of “chasing pixies” (a declaration that had been the fruit of nearly five hours in his bedroom without books or supper and a stern conversation with his father, a rather remarkable feat for a nine year old boy), Jackie had been let go and Harry’s parents had taken over full care of him, aside from lessons with tutors over holidays. As it stood, Maria and Franklin worried for their son, and tried their best to push him into sports and other more physical activities in hopes of stemming his obsession with fantasy early in its germination.

“Why though mum - what’s so important about whether or not I go with you, or whether or not I play rugby for Eton, or whether I go to the university you want me to? Doesn’t it matter what  _ I  _ think?” Harry knew he was whining, and could tell it was grating on his mother’s last nerve. But he simply couldn’t stop himself. “What if I don’t want to follow the path you’ve set out for me?”

“We aren’t going to have this discussion now, we’re already late. The tailor shop called nearly an hour and a half ago, saying that your father’s suit was ready. Now get in the car.” His mother was stern, and Harry knew the argument was lost. “If you still maintain these notions when you’re old enough for them to have weight, we’ll see.”

The ride to the shop was a long one, or at least it felt so to a young boy whose favourite parent was cross with him. Leaning his head against the window pane, Harry watched clouds float past and tried to make shapes out of them before they disappeared from sight or became the gradually increasing blank slate of grey that hovered over the city. He turned to people watching, especially at intersections where traffic moved slowly, and was awed by the sheer variety of people in London. Though the people changed as they passed from the outskirts of the city into the realm of the upscale urban jungle, there seemed to be something off about the city.

Taking in the colours against the muted city backdrop, Harry followed shadows that passed underfoot that others seemed to ignore. Odd-looking shapes that skirted alley corners and behind corner bins, up the sides of shops, and even occasionally through pedestrians on the street, acknowledged by only a shudder and a tugging of their coat closer to their chest against a non-existent gust of wind. The air itself had a cold quality to it, even for early January. Harry could almost see ice crystals hanging in the air, and was baffled by the fact that no one else seemed to see them.

Harry was only aware of the car rolling to a stop when his mother opened the door and motioned for him to get out, and he followed her from the kerb and into the doorway, but not before pausing to read the embossed lettering on the frosted window.

“Kingsman,” Harry read aloud.

“ _ Now, Henry. _ ” Knowing his mother only called him by his given name when she was especially cross, Harry scurried after her into the peculiarly named tailor shop, trying to take in everything at once.

 

_ Twenty-Seventh August, 2006 _

“Honestly, Reg, it’s just a horse.” Harry said, attempting to goad his friend into riding. If there was one thing he knew about Reggie, it was that he was incapable of turning down a challenge. “If your sister can do it, then so can you.”

“Yeah, my sister who you insist on showing off for,” Reggie muttered, swinging himself astride a bay gelding and sidling up next to his friend and his sister Alyssa. The Harts had been friendly with the Kennets for decades before the boys had been born, although the youngest sons had become thick as thieves during their time at school. “What are we waiting for then?” Clucking at his steed and giving his legs a squeeze, Reggie took off towards the woods that marked the outskirts of the Hart property.

Harry had never known peace quite like the back of a horse, racing through the open field with the wind in his hair. One of his favourite pastimes since he was quite young, he enjoyed the mindlessness and simplicity of being in touch with such a powerful animal. His horse, a sixteen and a half hand champagne Irish Warmblood, had been a gift for his tenth birthday and had promptly been dubbed Ahearn, an old Brythonic word he had uncovered in a book roughly translating to  _ lord of horses. _

Urging his horse into a canter with the adjustment of his seat, Harry quickly caught up to his friends as they burst down well known paths through the forest, traversed by wildlife and discovered by them on their “hunting parties,” or going on quests to find a dragon in their early rides unsupervised. Letting Ahearn have his head, the three sped through the undergrowth into rapidly growing evergreens.

“ _ Harry! Harry! _ ” Hearing his friends call, Harry pulled his horse to a walk and realized that not only had he outdistanced them, but he was also in a surprisingly unfamiliar part of the forest. A creek tripped softly nearby, and although early evening sunlight streamed through the trees, everything around him seemed to be muted. A crack brought his attention to the other side of the creek further upstream, where an animal stepped out from between the trees. Straining his eyes to see better, but not daring to go any closer, what first appeared to be a shaggy-looking grey horse was actually brilliantly, almost iridescently, white, even in the dimness.

“Is that - but they -  _ impossible. _ ” Harry muttered, afraid that even the tiniest of noises would scare it off.

“Curious, isn’t it?” A woman’s voice drifted out from behind a tree, followed shortly by the speaker herself. At least, Harry supposed she was female, although she was unlike any woman he had ever seen; exceedingly pale, but with high, aristocratic features and thin red lips, and dark hair. Beyond her eyes and voice, Harry wouldn’t have been able to tell she was female, as her clothing had no significant markers but obscured her frame. “They generally don’t stray this far away from the fae colonies. At least,” she giggled, a sound that reminded him distinctly of bells. “Not any more. Beasts like these haven’t been seen by your kind since the times of the knights of old - and even then, to most, they were more legend than fact.” She paused. “Of course, you aren’t quite  _ man _ , are you, m’lord?”

Startled from where he had been transfixed by the creature that should not - could not, by all logic - exist, Harry turned in his saddle to glance at the woman.

“And what, exactly, is that supposed to mean?” He could feel his ire flare up, and Ahearn shifted uneasily beneath him.

“The stars are curious things; they do not always say what they mean, nor do they always mean what they say. And you, more than anyone, should know that not all things are as they seem. Goodnight.” 

With a tilt of her head and a soft smile, she turned behind the tree she had come from. Straining in his saddle to see where she had gone, Harry found that she had vanished entirely. Puzzled, he turned back to the creek to watch as the beast before him gave what only could be described as the equine equivalent of a bow and trotted silently back into the trees.

“ _ There you are, Hart. _ ” After the ethereal encounter he had just had, the sheer amount of noise his friends made was almost deafening. “We were looking everywhere for you.”

“Sorry, it seems I got - distracted.” Harry chewed his bottom lip, mulling over what had happened and committing it to memory before the rational part of his brain convinced him that he had hallucinated the whole thing.

“By what?” Reggie asked, incredulously. “Surely a creek couldn’t have been so exciting that you were gone for nearly an hour!”

“Regardless, we should be heading back to the house. You never know what could be lurking in the trees after dark.” Harry said, and turned his horse along with his companions, allowing them to go on ahead.  _ Especially now, after… whatever just happened. There certainly wasn’t anything else returning to the ‘world of men’ - could there?  _ Harry thought to himself, turning his face to the sky as the sun finished its descent and the first twinkling stars could be seen against the darkening heavens.

_ They don’t always say what they mean, nor mean what they say. Things aren’t always as they seem. Curious. _

 

_ Sixth September, 2011 _

Harry was used to men in their early forties in bespoke suits showing up at the front door. Many of them asked for his father, but there had never been one in recent memory that had asked for him specifically, nor did they wish to discuss job opportunities in private. Although he found it odd and, to be honest, worrisome, he went along with the man to the study to tend to business.

It seemed to be ages before the man said anything of import, content to sip his brandy and make small talk as though he was an old friend.

“I have a proposition for you, lad.” The man said, taking a seat in the armchair near the fire as Harry leaned against the mantle. “I know a rather lot about your achievements; high academia, knowledge of diplomacy, level-headedness. Even a military requisite after seeing your accuracy with a handgun. Those things will serve you well where I’m from.”

“Where you’re from? What does that even mean?” In a slip of control that he had thought long since buried, Harry let his anger and confusion bleed through. “My apologies, sir, but I don’t quite grasp where you’re coming from with this. What, exactly, is your proposal?”

“My proposal,  _ boy _ , is a candidacy for a position at Kingsman.” The man before him, who had still neglected to give himself any sort of identity, leaned into the back of his chair and crossed his legs at the knee, playing idly with what appeared to be a fountain pen he had produced from his breast pocket.

“The  _ tailor shop _ ?’ Harry asked incredulously, remembering the gold lettering across the window displaying hunting coats and suits from many a trip with his mother. The man smirked. Unless it was his imagination, the flames behind the grill seemed to leap even higher the more irritated Harry got.

“ _ Not everything is as it seems. _ ” It seemed that phrase had been cropping up more and more as he got older. Harry wondered if he’d ever escape it. “Now,” he said, pulling himself up from his chair with far more grace and athleticism befitted a man of his age. “It’s time to kiss your mum goodbye and leave your father on good terms. Provided you do well, as I believe you will, you won’t see them again until after the new year.”

 

_ Fourteenth April, 2012. _

The last five months had been harrowing. Being in a dorm with eight other men was not a new experience, given his time at Eton college, but it had been taxing on his patience. Once the eliminations started, Harry had breathed a sigh of relief whenever someone else went home, dwindling the number of voices. From the dorm filling with water to skydiving to rigorous pre-dawn runs, he could say, now, at the very end, that he was in better shape than he had been in his entire near-twenty-two years on Earth, and was  _ absolutely not looking forward to doing it for the rest of his possibly very short life.  _ He had dealt with sabotaging, mockery for muttering passages from books in his sleep, and what he now recognized as accidental flare-ups of magick (he had nearly set someone on fire for making yet another crack about his yorkshire terrier. After three months post-incident and dodging Merlin trying to figure out how it had happened - the Scot was relentless when it came to things he didn’t know, apparently - he could still remember the way the heat had felt in his fingertips, gathering in his palms and flickering to life, quickly doused by his hands before anyone had seen and hiding himself away from everyone for the remainder of the evening).

Harry cuddled Mister Pickle closer to his chest, the small dog quivering. They had asked him to shoot his dog.  _ Arthur had asked him to shoot his dog.  _ He had weighed the blank, stood far enough away from the confused dog so that any possibility of him being injured was eliminated, and had fired. It didn’t feel right. Neither had the look in Arthur’s eye.

“Welcome to Kingsman, Galahad,” Arthur had said. Harry felt sick.


	2. Chapter 2

_ Ninth June, 1991 _

To say that Michelle and Lee Unwin wanted a child was an understatement. Nine months of calm pregnancy, easy labour and only one night spent in hospital gave them one, a Gary Michael Unwin, who although no louder than a normal child of his age, could not be considered quiet by any standards. Whether or not the couple was prepared to care for a child, however, was another matter entirely. Living in Estate Housing and with Lee on a Marine’s salary, they would be able to get by, but they worried for their son. They wanted to give him the best, and knew that it would take some careful maneuvering on their part to do so.

There were few congratulations when they arrived home from the hospital, with only their immediate neighbours knowing they had gone in the first place. It was to be expected, though, as everyone believed that children were already taxing enough on one’s sanity, let alone bank account, and many couldn’t fathom why the young couple had chosen to have one at all.

“Don’t listen to ‘em, Gary,” Michelle would croon after a particularly nasty day, though to reassure herself of the baby she was never quite sure. “You’re gonna be great. Get out of here and into the world, one day. Gonna be my little knight.”

“He’s going to be the best man the world has ever seen. He’s going to change the world, don’t you worry Michelle. Then they’ll see.” Lee would say whenever he found her doing this, coming up behind her and resting a hand on the small of her back, peering around to poke at his small son’s stomach and watch him giggle. “They’ll have to, he won’t give them a choice.” 

And perhaps it was coincidence, or maybe the universe had decided on a chosen, but if Gary took a liking to old stories about knights and castles and princesses and dragons, nobody could really blame him much. Anything to keep the youngest Unwin from the horrors of social class, to make him believe that he could be great - that he could do anything he set his mind too. If Michelle took comfort in them while her husband was deployed, well, that was nobody’s business but her own.

 

_ Third April, 1994 _

It was rare that Lee would be home for any sort of holiday, let alone Easter. He was, however, and Michelle planned on taking full advantage of his leave. She had gone out and bought another dozen eggs and had hardboiled them, and had even set out child-friendly watercolour paints. They were going to make Easter eggs if it was the last thing she did (although she sincerely hoped it wasn’t). 

Setting her small son in his booster seat, she helped him paint designs on the eggs while Lee was still rolling out of bed, and when he came out they had already done two, brightly coloured in yellows and pinks and swirled across with blues. It might have been her imagination, but the swirling patterns seemed to dance when she turned them. She shook her head at her own fanciful thoughts, such a thing like that must be all in her head.

“Well aren’t these the prettiest eggs I’ve ever seen,” Lee said as he blew a raspberry into his son’s neck, before turning to kiss his wife. She smiled and watched as he sat next to Gary, helping him with the next egg, and was content with her life, no matter how hard it may be sometimes. Her little family was together and safe, and by God she was going to enjoy it. Leaving the scene to go rummage through her bedroom for a camera, Michelle came back to the sound uncontrollable laughter.

“Look mum, I’ma egg too!” She snapped a photo or two of her son with purple and pink splotches on his face, intermingled with what seemed to be orange, though she wasn’t entirely sure. He was all smiles, however, and so was her husband, both grinning widely at the camera as she took the picture.

“My little Easter Egg.” She said, picking him up and putting him next to the sink she she could wipe his face. “My little Eggsy.”

“Aw, but mum!” The boy cried as Michelle attempted to wipe the colours off his face, clearly distraught with the turn of events. “Now I’m not gon’ be an egg!”

Lee leaned against the counter next to them and poked his son’s stomach. “You’ll always be our little Eggsy, son. No matter what. Now be a good lad and let your mum wash your face.”

Eggsy conceded, even if he wasn't happy about it. He wanted to have a reminder of this moment with his dad. He knew that he was going away again soon, and that he wouldn’t see him for a long time. He didn’t quite understand the box he and his dad had looked at earlier, but he supposed that the light that came from it did something. If his mum had done it, then maybe he would get to see his dad in the other side. His dad lifted him off the counter when his mother was done and put him back in his chair.

“We've still got more eggs to paint, yeah? Cheer up, let's get started.” His dad held the eggs while his mum passed him pots of colours, and even at the tender age of three he knew that no matter what happened, they would always be a family.

 

_ Twentieth December, 1997 _

Four days before Christmas. His dad was supposed to be home celebrating with them, hanging up decorations around their flat and helping to do the countdown. There was four days left before Christmas, and a man in nice trousers was making his mother upset.

“I don’t want your stupid medal,” Michelle cried. “I want my husband back!” Eggsy glanced up from his snowglobe to see his mother bat a small gold circle to the floor in between dabbing at her tears. The man picked it up and sighed softly, torn between offering his condolences again and recognizing a lost cause. Even at six, Eggsy knew that the strange man in their flat had seen a lot of lost causes. He watched as the man got up and knelt in front of him, twisting the coin-shaped object in his fingers.

“And what’s your name, lad?” Eggsy thought he had kind eyes, even if he didn’t quite fit with the people he knew. His soft sweater over a dress shirt and a funny-patterned tie (tartan, he would later learn), his nice, shiny shoes with weird swirling, and a bald head, the man before him definitely didn’t look like he mingled regularly with people in Eggsy’s neighbourhood.

“Eggsy.” He said softly, shaking the globe again. The man held out a hand, gesturing to the ornament, and shook it gently when the small boy handed it to him. He smiled sadly, watching the fake snow swirl around inside the glass, and set the miniature chalet on the side table.

“It’s very nice to meet you, Eggsy. I’m Malcolm.” The man smiled slightly again, more with his eyes this time than the last, and offered the medal to Eggsy. “I want you to take care of this, can you do that? And take care of your mum, too.” Eggsy nodded, and the strange man reached out a man and ruffled his hair. “Good lad.” The man paused, smiling to himself - brighter this time - and laughed under his breath as though remembering an inside joke. “I need you to remember something else for me, Eggsy. I need you to remember ‘ _ oxfords, not brogues. _ ’ It’s very important. If you’re ever in trouble, there’s a number on the back of that medal. When they pick up, say ‘oxfords, not brogues,’ and you’ll have called in the favour.” With one last look at Michelle Unwin, the man left, closing the door behind him and disappearing into the cold night.

Eggsy watched as his mother tried to keep it together for him, and he padded across the floor to where she sat on the sofa. Climbing up next to her and leaning his head on her shoulder, the small boy wrapped one hand tightly around the medal. They stayed that way for a while, leaning against each other, the side table lamp still shining and casting a soft glow about the room, too cheerful for the events that had transpired. With a yawn, Michelle lifted her dozing son in her arms (even though he was, by many standards, far too big to be carried), switched off the light, and tucked him into bed before heading to her own room, where her tears went unheard for the rest of the evening.

Eggsy, alone in his room and half asleep, watched the stars twinkle outside his window, and, maybe it was just his tired brain playing tricks, followed the gentle build-up of frost on the surfaces of his bedroom, even though the window had been closed and the heat turned on.

 

_ Twelfth May, 2003 _

Dean Baker had become an ever-growing presence in Eggsy’s life. His mum had made it three years after the death of his father, working two jobs just to make ends meet, before she had started seeing him. At first it was only occasionally, went out for dinner once a month or so, never really brought him around to the flat, but seemed happier. Happy for his mother, Eggsy was willing to let it go and not press, after all, if his mum went out with someone, he had a few hours to hang out with his mates, wander the city like he wasn’t allowed to do normally. If less time with his mum awarded him more freedom, then he would take it with both hands - who could blame him, for he wasn't quite yet twelve.

It got harder after that. She saw Dean more and more, introduced him to her son (Eggsy had gotten a bad vibe off the man the first time they met, a weird tingling at the back of his mind that told him to  _ run _ , to grab his mother’s hand and get her as far away from this man as possible - she had laughed softly when he told her, said he just didn’t like sharing). They hadn’t been seeing each other just longer than five months when she asked him to move in with them, explaining to her boy that he had a steady job and was willing to take him on as his own, that she wouldn’t have to work all the time, and that they could see each other, and wouldn’t that just be great?

But it wasn’t. At least, not for Eggsy. Sure, his mum got to spend more time with him, and after what felt like ages of having sparse conversations with her in the moments when she wasn’t bone tired or rushing off to work it was nice to see her. Dean stayed around more, brought his mates home to laze about their flat instead of going to work, and Eggsy had always wondered why his mum stayed with the human facsimile of a pig. Then the drugs started.

He noticed it in his mum first, the way her eyes glazed and she always seemed to check out of reality. Recognized the look from neighbours down the way, folks on the streets who weren’t as “lucky” as they were. Eggsy was smart, all the teachers at school told him so, bemoaned his situation when they thought nobody was around ( _ “Poor soul,”  _ they’d say, like he was some lost sailor bound to be stranded on some unknown mooring.  _ “Has the makings of a brilliant man, if only he wasn’t stuck on the Estates. He could do great things.”  _ The most popular of them all, however, was when they found out that he had dropped out of gymnastics.  _ “It’s not his work ethic, I’ve seen how dedicated he can be. Something must have happened at home. Poor thing must be heartbroken, shot of his chance to represent the country at the Olympics when he’s old enough.” _ ). But guessing that your mum was doing drugs wasn’t exactly a stretch, if you took in the drastic changes in her personality. It hadn’t been long after he’d come to that conclusion that Dean had approached him about running.

“Listen here, kid.” He said, sour breath and reeking of days-old sweat and alcohol and who knew what else, cornering him in the kitchenette. “I got a job for ya, and I need ya ta do it, no questions.” He leered closer, and Eggsy could feel himself trying to shrink into the countertop. Whenever Dean got in his face like this, Eggsy always thought about the night he found out his dad died, and the man in the soft sweater telling him that he needed to take care of his mum. Even if it fed her addiction, it was enough to keep her safe, and so it was enough to put steel in Eggsy’s spine. “Yer gonna have ta keep yer mouth shut on this, boy, or else ye’ll be hearin’ it from me, got it?” Eggsy nodded as the man handed him a paper bag, with directions to an apartment block up the street and how much cash was supposed to come back in that bag. “If I find ya’ve slipped up anyhow, or that ya nicked anything outta there, that’ll be just about the end of ya, hear me?” Eggsy nodded again. “Good, now off witchya.”

Taking a deep breath of the cool night air and stuffing the bag into the inside pocket of his jacket, Eggsy made his way down the street and tried not to think too hard about what he was doing. He took comfort in the chill of the night air that bit at his skin and turned it pink, welcoming it like an old friend.

 

_ Thirtieth November, 2013 _

The cold wind was a welcome distraction from the hell that was his flat - Dean had been more violent than usual, something about a deal gone bad, and he needed someone to take it out on. Better him than his mum. That seemed to be Eggsy’s mantra as of late; the worse Dean got the easier it was for him to take it, as long as his mum didn’t get hit instead. ‘ _ I need you to take care of your mum.’  _ Those words, from a man who he hardly remembered, had gotten him through many a hard night, stitching up cuts and dousing scrapes in antiseptic while trying not to scream around the leather belt clamped tight between his teeth. 

The longer he was around Dean, the more he knew he had to find some way to get out. Joining the Marines hadn’t worked - his mum sobbing on the other end of the line, saying that she was pregnant and needed help, well that was enough to have him packing his bags and saying his goodbyes. His commanding officers hadn’t been pleased, but his bunk-mates had understood, hearing her distress on the other end of the line. He had been close with them, enough for them all to share their stories, their reasons for fighting. They knew about his mum, about his desire to be anywhere but near his stepfather, about his need to protect her no matter what. They’d miss him, but they hadn’t tried to convince him to stay either.

Some time later, he would be able to think of a reason as to why the guy got the jump on him - maybe he had been too lost in thought, maybe he wasn’t as aware of his surroundings as he had wanted to be. Whatever his logic, it didn't change the fact that he had his back against the wall in an alley with a stranger’s hand around his throat. Eggys scrabbled against him, trying to find some sort of purchase, but either the man was far stronger than he looked (entirely possible, given that he was being held two inches off the ground) or there was something else at play - Eggsy knew all about mysterious forces, had grown up around them, listened to them and avoided them when necessary. 

“I don’t have any money, bruv, promise.” He managed to choke out around the fingers clamped against his windpipe. “If you find any I'd be surprised.” It wasn’t technically a lie, since what little money he managed to keep from Dean went either to paying rent or food or toys for his sister, and maybe the odd drink or two out with Jamal and Ryan.

“I don’t want your money, boy.” Eggsy was sure now, as he was hoisted even higher off of the cement and the small of his back rose uncovered by his jacket and scraped against the brick, that whoever he was dealing with couldn’t be human. Nobody sounded like that, no matter how they destroyed their body. A voice shouldn’t sound like someone was syphoning gasoline and then put through an identity scrambler. If he hadn’t known better, he would have believed that the voice wasn’t even coming from the figure in front of him, even if he could see under the man’s hood. “I want your power.”

“What the fuck, guv?! I don’t know what the fuck you’re on about, swear down! Now let me go, please!” It was difficult to shout with his throat constricted as much as it was, but he gave it a good go anyway. What came out sounded less like he normally would and more as though he had scrubbed steel wool down his esophagus - breathy and as if he was chewing on rocks. The hand around his neck tightened again, and Eggsy’s vision began to swim.

Kicking out blindly, he had managed to break free of whoever - whatever - his attacker was, but he was still cornered in the dead-end alley. Dropping low and preparing to dodge a hit, he realized he needed a plan if he wanted to get out of here more or less unscathed.  _ Vaguely humanoid, increased strength,  _ Eggsy thought as his eyes rolled wildly trying to find an exit that wouldn’t get him killed.  _ Probably has some sort of weapon on him _ . The figure before him pulled what seemed to be, in the dim light of the streetlight down the way, a very long, glowing sword. It swung towards him, and jumping back, Eggsy sent up a silent prayer to whoever may be listening that he might make it home in one piece.

“ _ What the actual fuck? _ ” Eggsy hissed, vaulting off of an overturned trash can. “You know what big guy? Fine. If you want a fight, then I’ll fight you.”

“The rules of combat state that you must be armed for it to be a fight. You do not have a weapon.” The voice made something churn deep in his stomach, and Eggsy could feel ice building in his veins - a familiar sensation, but predominant only when he was particularly angry with someone. Rolling under another swing of the blade, he managed to buy himself some time by dragging his palm over the ground and creating a thin film of ice as he went. Now if only he had some way to get the man to cross it, and he would get the upper hand.

“Well then, guess that means you have no rights to attack me, don’t it?” Eggsy tried for a chuckle in an attempt to come off more bold than he felt, but even  _ he  _ knew it had fallen flat. “And whose to say I don’t have anything up my sleeve, eh?” Taunting him into taking a few steps in his direction, Eggsy watched as he hit the ice and began to slide. Unfortunately, his attacker was falling toward him, blade pointed at his chest. Concentrating with all his might Eggsy sprung upwards and gripped the grate of the fire-escape, out of reach of immediate harm, and took his opening. He thrust the heel of his trainer into his attacker’s head and watched with grim delight as he was flung backwards, skull bashing against the cement. 

Dropping softly (a skill developed in gymnastics and perfected during his years of parkour), Eggsy stood stalk still against the wall behind him as a thin film of ice seemed to grow over the corpse before him, thickening until it had obscured the body entirely. Creeping forward, Eggsy tapped his foot against the side of the block and jumped back abruptly as it crumbled into nothing, fragments of ice twirling into snow and disappearing into the night. All that remained was the handle of the sword, still warm to the touch even though its wielder had been reduced to the frozen equivalent of ash.

“Huh, Eggsy said, carefully depositing the pommel into his inside jacket pocket. Leaving the alley and making his way home, Eggsy turned over the strange incident in his mind. Something was stirring, and he didn’t like it at all.   
  


_ Twenty-First February, 2014 _

Eggsy could probably make a laundry list of things that led up to this moment: his dad dying, his mum’s first date with Dean, the constant humming under his skin that begged for an outlet whatever way he let it, his dislike of Dean’s thugs, his need to protect the people he cared about even if it meant taking the fall for something,  _ that goddamn fucking fox _ . None of it changed the four walls he was looking at.

“I’d like to exercise my right to a phone call.” He didn’t have a way out of this one, not really. Dean wouldn’t care if he sat in jail, his mum would become a target but had no way to get him out of the corner he had literally driven himself into. Ryan and Jamal were as broke as he was, and he didn’t expect them to try and come up with bail money - they didn’t nick Rottie’s keys, it hadn’t been their fault. This one was all on him.

“Then it’d better be to your mum, tellin’ her you’ll be eighteen months late for your dinner.”  _ Shit.  _ Waiting until the officer left him alone, Eggsy pulled out the medal he wore around his neck and ran his thumb over it. The man who had given him this wouldn’t be pleased with him - his dad probably wouldn’t either. He figured that the list of people he’d disappointed was already fairly long, and adding two more to the list wouldn’t hurt. He dialed the number.

“ _ Customer complaints, how may we help you? _ ” Well that wasn’t what he had been expecting to hear.

“My name’s Eggsy Unwin - sorry, Gary Unwin - and I’m up shit creek. I’m at Holborn police station, and my mum said to call this number if I was ever in trouble -”

“ _ Sorry sir, wrong number. _ ” The feeling of dread settled low in his stomach, and the temperature of the room seemed to drop ten degrees.

“Wait, wait - um, oxfords, not brogues?” There was silence on the other end of the line, and then whoever he was speaking to seemed to take a deep breath.

“ _ Your complaint has been duly noted, we sincerely hope we haven’t lost you as a loyal customer.”  _ The line went dead, and he was left alone with his thoughts. The more he thought about it, the angrier he became; at himself, for wasting the call on something like this, at his mum, for getting together with Dean in the first place, at the man who gave him the medal, at his dad for abandoning them. The angrier he got, the colder the room became. Eggsy had learned early on to control his ability, and he knew if he wasn’t careful the glass and the table would start to frost.  _ And wouldn’t that just lead to more unnecessary questions _ , he thought. The last thing he needed was for the officer to grill him about why there was ice everywhere.

The door to the interrogation room opened suddenly, and in stepped the officer who had interrogated him, a sour look on his face.

“Looks like you have friends in high places,” he sneered, the corner of his mouth twisting nearly to his nose in disgust. “You’re free to go.”

There had to be a catch, nothing in his life had  _ ever  _ been that simple. Eggsy didn’t have friends in high enough places to get him out of eighteen months in jail, let alone who even knew he was facing eighteen months to begin with. Marking it down as another one of those strange forces he had learned early on to avoid, Eggsy was wary as he made his way out of the interrogation room and to the front desk to collect his things, and even more so as he stepped outside into the light of day, something which had seemed so untouchable to him just minutes ago. He made it almost all the way down the stairs to the street when someone cleared their throat politely behind him.  _ There’s the catch.  _ Turning to see who had wanted his attention, Eggsy was presented with a man who looked not much older than he was, in a well-cut suit and a wool overcoat against the chill, dark sunglasses slipping into a thick head of hair, and an umbrella hooked over one arm. He smiled, and if Eggsy hadn’t been so suspicious of the stranger’s intentions, he might have even thought him handsome.

“Hello Eggsy. Would you like a lift home?” Strangers had never bothered him, he couldn’t let someone he didn’t know get under his skin where he was from. He wouldn’t have survived long if he had. But there was something about this man that itched at him. He just couldn’t quite put a finger on  _ how _ .

“Who the fuck are you?” The man sighed in resignation, as though he had been expecting an answer similar to the one Eggsy had given, but had been holding out hope otherwise.

“A friend of the man who got you released.” He held out his hand and Eggsy stared at it, still unsure of where this conversation was headed.

“Yeah, that ain’t an answer.” Retracting his hand and pushing off the wall he had been leaning against, he took the two steps height difference in one stride until they were nearly at eye level to each other, though he stood almost three inches taller than Eggsy.

“Some gratitude, perhaps? My name is Harry Hart. I work with the man who gave you that medal. Your father saved his life.”  _ Huh, maybe today won’t be a write-off after all.  _


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my gosh I haven't updated this in forever. Here's chapter 3!

Harry sat across the booth from Eggsy and studied him careful, trying not to betray his awareness of the way Eggsy’s gaze lingered on his hair and the collar of his suit. The man was bright, to be sure; he knew as much from going over his files from school. Kingsman had taught him a fair amount about not judging by appearances, and he had to continually remind himself that while Eggsy had been raised in the Estates, what he knew about the man aside from what was in the file Merlin had given him was actually very slim. Harry took a sip of his Guinness and watched Eggsy watch him, and made a note of the way Eggsy’s hands tightened around his glass when he swallowed.  _ His glass is still chilled, even though his hands are around it and the pub is warm _ , Harry thought to himself, quirking an eyebrow.  _ Interesting _ . Setting his glass back on the table, Harry ran his tongue along the backs of his teeth before speaking again.

“Why don’t you start with telling me why you were at the police station?” Eggsy sat back in his seat, a small frown marring his features.

“You mean you don’t know?” His question was more curious than angry, which Harry took for a good sign. The last thing he wanted - or needed - was for this conversation to turn to blows, which it very well could if he didn’t watch his tongue before he could get a good read for Eggsy’s temper. Harry inclined his head and indicated for him to continue. Eggsy looked around the pub before leaning forward again, one elbow firmly on the table. “Let’s just say I did something I shouldn’t have and leave it at that, yeah?”

“Are we talking drugs, petty crime, or grand theft?” In truth, Harry knew very well why he had had to retrieve Gary Unwin from Holborn Police Station, but he had wanted to hear the words from Eggsy’s mouth. “Something had landed you in  _ very _ hot water, which I find concerning, considering your excellent track record at school. And pegged for olympic team material in gymnastics, too. So? What was it?”

“Listen, Harry, wasn’t it? I don’t know how much you know about me, or how you know it, which is frankly  _ creepy,  _ what the  _ fuck _ , bruv. But that don’t give you the right to go assuming things about me. Clear?” Harry nodded, rocking his glass idly. If Eggsy didn’t want conversation then that was his prerogative, but that wouldn’t stop Harry from speaking.

“All I’m saying is that I firmly believe your father would be bitterly disappointed in some of the decisions you’ve made.” Eggsy tilted backwards, looking affronted. It was a fair reaction, considering Harry had let his mouth run away from him and all but insulted the man sitting across from him.

“You can’t speak to me that way.” Harry quirked an eyebrow.

“Is that attitude what got you tossed from the Marines?” Harry regretted the words the moment they were out of his mouth, but it was too late to take them back now. Eggsy was angry now, Harry could read it in the lines of his face and the stiffness of his shoulders. The air around him dropped several degrees, but his training wasn’t for nothing, and Harry managed to suppress his shiver.

“That was my mum, cryin’ about how she didn’t want to lose me as well as my dad. Didn’t want me bein’ cannon fodder for rich snobs like you. Well guess what, Harry,” Eggsy was in his space now, leaning halfway across the table. “If we was born with the same silver spoon up our asses, we’d be  _ just as good _ as you, if not  _ better. _ ” Harry had to admire his devotion to the subject. Had Merlin not already forced him into putting Eggsy forward as a proposal - since Merlin himself could only have the one on behalf of his division - then he would have chosen to do it himself. Under the right circumstances, he and Eggsy would get along rather well. As though to punctuate the end of Eggsy’s sentence, the doors of the pub anged open, and a rough looking group of men made their way to the booth. Eggsy sighed.

“Oi, Unwin,” said the man who appeared to be the leader of the group. “You have some nerve, showing up here.”“More examples of fine young gentlemen who are simply in need of a silver suppository?” Harry could feel the fire burning under his skin, and he looked back at Eggsy, steadfastly ignoring the approaching group of people. Eggsy shook his head minutely.

“Naw, they’re different. You should go.” His nod was pointed as the group caged them in. Harry could smell the alcohol, sweat, and god knew what else.

“Nonsense,” Harry replied, taking a sip of his half-glass of Guinness. “We haven’t finished our drinks.” The leader of the group stepped forward, even more into Harry’s space than before. Harry eyed the group, cataloguing strengths and weaknesses. He  _ could _ take them down, if need be. Eggsy may or may not help him, depending on how willing he was to come to Harry’s defence.

“He’s right, why don’t you get on outta here?” There was one thing Harry disliked above all else - and it was rather ironic, considering his profession - and that was being told what to do. As it stood, listening to the group of dumb chuckles from the rag-tag group of men before him, Harry was less inclined to move than he had considered himself before. “We’ve got business.”

“Yeah. Dean says that after you nicked Rottie’s car,” the man speaking, who in Harry’s opinion was not  _ quite _ as wide as he was tall, and could definitely use with a hot shower, jabbed his thumb at the tall man in the middle, who Harry took to be Rottie. “You’re fair game. No matter what your mum says.”

“If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I’ve had a rather emotional day. So whatever your beef with Eggsy is,  _ and I’m sure it’s well founded _ , could you kindly wait until I’ve finished this lovely pint of Guinness?” All eyes turned to him, and seemed to come to the unanimous conclusion that Harry’s opinion wasn’t worth the issue. He turned to Eggsy to try and gauge his reaction, already decided on how he would proceed from this point.

“You should go, Harry.” Eggsy’s voice was resigned, as though he were used to this sort of treatment from who Harry assumed to be his stepfather’s thugs. Harry nodded and stood up, carefully parting the men before him. Rottie stuck his arm out to aid his passage, and none of the men noticed he had left his coat behind.

“If you’re looking for a rent boy, you’ll find ‘em on the corner of Smith Street.” The short man who had spoken earlier called after him, and the rest of the group laughed. Harry could feel his blood boil, and the air around him sizzled. From across the pub floor, he could hear Eggsy sigh heavily.  _ Curious _ . Harry continued walking as though he hadn’t heard the quip, but stopped at the door.

“Hasn’t anyone ever told you that manners,” he said, turning the lock on the door. He could feel eyes on his back, and he didn’t enjoy the feeling. “Maketh,” he reached up and pushed the upper pin into it’s home, and then slid the catch into place. “Man.”

“Harry,  _ no _ .” Harry hazarded a glance in the mirror by the door and he could see Eggsy scrub a hand down his face.

“Do you know what that means?” He was met with dumb looks. “No? Allow me to teach you a lesson.” Using the curved handle of his umbrella, Harry flung the quarter-full glass of liquor backwards, and hit Rottie square in the forehead, knocking him backwards and he stumbled to the dirty floor of the pub. “Now, are we going to stand around all day, or are we going to fight?” Harry couldn’t resist the urge to send a cheeky wink Eggsy’s way, and the other man coloured slightly. Heads jolting up from their fallen comrade, the four remaining men turned to Harry simultaneously. Resisting the urge to crack his knuckles - Merlin would have his head for such a crass display, and besides, doing so was bad for one’s joints - Harry looked at each of them in turn, and raised an eyebrow. They rushed him.

He took them down easily, one after another, using members of their party as shields when necessary. It was almost embarrassing, really, how easily they went down. One after another they fell like bowling pins, knocking each other out as Harry directed punch after punch towards another target, using the handle of his umbrella to move people as quickly as he could. Perhaps he was showing off, but only a little bit. Not enough for him to get into trouble, surely. And besides, if Eggsy were to join Kingsman, he should at least have  _ some _ sort of idea of what he was getting into.

The first man he had taken down, Rottie, sat up from the floor, finally regaining his senses. He pulled a pistol from the waistband of his jeans, and in one fluid motion Harry opened his umbrella and knelt behind it, even as Rottie rose to his feet.

“You dirty, fucking, dirty, fucking -” Each word was punctuated with a shot from his pistol, but eventually he ran out of bullets. While he clicked the trigger uselessly, Harry changed the setting on his umbrella and pulled the trigger that appeared out of the handle, firing it and knocking Rottie to the ground. When he stood, Harry stunned the bartender who had been in the midst of calling the police, and adding a small dose of amnesia for good measure.  _ Highest level of discretion, and all that _ . Sitting down across from Eggsy - who was looking at him as though he had grown a second head - Harry tossed back the rest of his drink in one go, swallowed thickly, and made eye contact with the man across from him.

“Sorry.” Harry wasn’t sure  _ why _ he felt the need to apologize; if the look in Eggsy’s eyes that he was having trouble concealing was any indication, he had performed admirably. His blood was still thrumming heavily past his ears, the anger he felt at the rent boy barb aimed at Eggsy still fresh under his skin. Harry could feel it licking at his palms, dancing under his skin, and he needed to get away before he did something drastic,  _ again _ , or possibly burned Eggsy. “Needed to let off a little steam. A colleague of mine died recently. Yesterday, in fact. He knew your father too. Now if you’ll excuse me, I  _ am _ terribly sorry.” Slinging his coat over his arm along with the hook of his umbrella, Harry aimed his watch at Eggsy who immediately raised his hands.

“I won’t tell, honest.”

“Do you swear on that?”

“I ain’t never grassed anyone up, just ask the feds.” Eggsy was shaking, and the he let out a small sigh when Harry lowered his watch. It was just as well; having to erase Eggsy’s memory of this encounter would not only fail to serve his purposes, but it would also make him feel odd being the only person who could look back on this and remember the heat of it. Yes, to his credit, Harry  _ had _ noticed the way Eggsy was looking at him, both on their walk to the pub but also just as he had sat down. Clamping a hand on Eggsy’s shoulder - a warm, thankful gesture masking his purpose of planting a listening device on the other man, for Harry wasn’t  _ entirely _ sure he could trust Gary Unwin with something of this magnitude, though he desperately wanted to - Harry took his leave.

He wasn’t out the door of the pub a moment before Merlin came over his glasses feed, clearly angry with him, but also sounding slightly impressed.

_ “You just couldn’t resist showing off, could you?” _  Harry raised his phone to his ear as he walked, so as not to seem strange, walking down the street and holding a very one-sided conversation with himself.  _ “Are you sure that was entirely necessary?” _

“Of course it was.” Harry took the silence on Merlin’s end as a pause in expectancy of his explanation. “They called him a rent boy. And besides, I’ve had Arthur breathing down my neck all day telling me that I need to find a candidate for the Lancelot position. What better way to convince him without outright doing so than to provide a demonstration beforehand?”

_ “Arthur’s just in a rutt about life, don’t take it personal. I’m still not sold on presenting Unwin, he - let’s just say that it isn’t Unwin I’m really worried about.” _ Harry scoffed at the handler.

“You aren’t sold? You’re the one who suggested it to begin with! And besides, Arthur  _ already _ doesn’t like me. What more could he possibly do?” A kingsman cab crept along the kerb as Harry walked down the sidewalk, though how it knew where to find him - and how it arrived so quickly - was a mystery whose answer was probably the man he was pretending to be on the phone with. Opening the door and sitting down heavily in the back of the cab, Harry huffed. “Stanhope Mews, please.” The driver nodded and pulled away from the kerb.

_ “You’d be surprised. Arthur has the power to make your life miserable _ . _ ” _ If one had asked Harry, and nobody had, he would reply that his life was already fairly miserable. Aside from flying off to previously unfamiliar parts of the world, he almost died on a regular basis, he had very little downtime between missions (something he suspected as being Arthur’s doing, unfortunately, and we most like well out of bounds of standard regulations), and he was, above all, lonely. Being a Kingsman meant he had precious little time to himself, and the only living beings he saw on a regular basis apart from his dog were his fellow agents, and generally his neighbours, who he never spoke to for fear of making them targets. It was rather hard to find the time to be in a committed - or even a  _ casual _ , for crying out loud - relationship, when one barely had the time to sleep properly every night. There was likely a whole myriad of other reasons as to why Arthur hated him so much, one of which could be his listed preferences that are recorded for the sole purpose of possible honeypot missions, but that was neither here nor there.

Merlin clicked offline suddenly, leaving Harry to sit in the silence of the cab. Strangely, he found himself wondering how Eggsy was faring, especially as he didn’t have access to the audio for the bug at the current moment. His train of thought skipping the tracks entirely, Harry remembered the way Eggsy’s glass had stayed cold the entire time they were seated, the frost not once dripping down the side as it melted. There was also the sudden temperature changes, though they could be easily explained away due to their sitting underneath a window.  _ Perhaps he’s like me. What if I wasn’t the only one? _

Harry shook the thought from his mind as the cab pulled to a stop in front of his house, and thanking the driver he closed the door without looking and trudged up his walk. Thinking along those lines had always been dangerous for Harry; the people he cared deeply about consistently wound up injured or worse at his expense, generally from something he personally had done.  _ It wouldn’t do to hurt Eggsy just because the two of you stand a slim chance of being alike. That is no basis for affection, Henry. Stop being so stupid.  _ Unlocking his front door and stepping inside, Harry leaned heavily on it as he toed off his Oxfords. There was a scratching on the hardwood coming from the hall, and then around the corner raced Mister Pickle. Harry bent to meet him and scooped the Yorkshire terrier into his arms, pulling him close even as his face was assaulted with the wet nose of his dog.

“Yes, yes, hello to you too.” Harry said as he scratched the terrier behind the ear, carrying him up the stairs to his study. He was interested, to say the least, about whether or not Eggsy had broken his promise as of yet. He sincerely hoped that he hadn’t. Setting Mister Pickle down, Harry watched the dog sniff around the room for a moment before turning on his sound equipment. Coming up on the screen there was an audio file and a microphone button. The audio wave was jumping up and down, signifying that there was a rather pointed conversation happening on the other end, and Harry sat down in his chair, opening it in the middle of the occurrence.

_ “Just tell me the name of the bloke you was with, boy.”  _ The voice coming through was, while male, unrecognizable to Harry. There seemed to be some sort of scuffle on the other end, and the sound of skin hitting skin. Harry winced.

_ “I’m telling you, I wasn’t with no one, honest!”  _ That one, at least, Harry knew. It was Eggsy, and while he was in some way pleased that Eggsy was keeping his mouth shut about their encounter, he felt terrible about abandoning the man to his current situation. This must be the Dean Baker he had heard about briefly. A woman shrieked on the other end of the connection.

_ “I said fuck off, Michelle. I could kill you right now, Muggsy, and nobody in the whole goddamn world would notice.”  _ Harry clicked the microphone button.

“But I would.” There was silence on the other end, and Harry hoped that the connection was still live. “I have enough information on you and your activities to put you in jail for life, mister Dean Anthony Baker.” He didn’t, really. In fact, Harry knew very little about Eggsy’s stepfather, aside from what information Merlin had provided him with, but should it come down to it there was no reason he wouldn’t be able to acquire it. “Eggsy, why don’t you meet me at that tailor shop I told you about?” There was the sound of a door slamming, and Harry looked down at his watch. Provided there was no extenuating circumstances, Eggsy would be at the shop in a couple of hours.  _ I have time for a nice walk, I suppose. _ Harry looked over at his dog, curled up on the floor next to the armchair. He twitched in his sleep.  _ He’ll be fine. _ Decision made, Harry sent a quick message to Merlin informing him of the change in circumstances, and that he would be bringing Lee Unwin’s son after all.

The walk to Savile Row was, fortunately, short. Harry enjoyed being outdoors and longed to be back home and riding as he walked through Hyde Park, even the slim greenery better than the grey wash of the London streets in comparison. He still had an hour or so until Eggsy was due to arrive, and to fill time Harry made himself useful fixing displays on the shop floor. It wasn’t often that active agents were required to help in the shop (though they all had training just in case), and these posts were generally reserved for those on medical clearance but were not well enough for the field. Still, the hours ticked by and the sun went down, and Harry found himself looking through the window far more often than necessary for Eggsy. Dagonet flipped the front sign to closed and went to his room in the loft, leaving Harry alone. On an impulse, he poured himself a drink and sank into one of the many leather couches that dotted the front room.

At long last, Eggsy arrived. Harry let himself admire the way the soft light turned his hair gold before forcing himself to focus on his task at hand. Eggsy made eye contact with him through the window, looking hesitantly at the glass door before opening it and stepping inside, immediately rounding on Harry.

“I’ve never met a tailor before,” he said, voice quiet but sure, and it may have been the alcohol buzzing through his system but Harry felt several degrees warmer under the weight of Eggsy’s stare. “But I know you ain’t one.” Thinking  _ to hell with it _ , Harry knocked back the rest of his drink and nodded in the direction of Fitting Room One. Eggsy raised an eyebrow.

“This way.” He held the door open and Eggsy stood in the centre of the small green room, bright eyes playful as they met each other’s gaze in the trifold mirror. Biting his lip gently, Eggsy looked up at him from under his lashes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @me why can't I just write a decent chapter? jeeesus. I apologize for how horrible and wordy it is, the scene description sort of got away from me *scratches neck* but I promise the rest of it will be better since I actually know... how to... write. I've gotten sidetracked by a big project lately (that should be in editing by the end of the month! woo!) so I haven't had as much time as I would have liked to write this, but I'm hoping in the near future I can crank out some chapters and get this finished before the sequel throws everything even more out of canon than it already is. It's second on my priority list, before even a second novel that I'm putting in the works, so don't worry. And really, my time off is to your benefit because my fics are going to get better! Again, thank you all for reading and leaving comments and kudos! x


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *dusts off cobwebs, offers cookies* hey

Eggsy tried not to think about the implications of being in such a small room together,  _ especially _ because of the obvious differences between them. Had Harry been any older, he might have read the situation differently. But he supposed that because he and Harry were nearly the same age, it would be fine. Right? 

He tried to put on an air of confidence, meeting Harry’s gaze in the mirror as he forced himself not to dig his nails into his palms, or do something insane. Like freeze the place.

“When you look in this mirror, Eggsy, what do you see?” Harry’s question was an odd one, but fitting.  _ Haha, fitting, look at me, making nervous puns. Shut up Eggsy. Play it cool. _

“Someone who wants to know what the fuck is going on.”  _ Aced it _ . Next to him, Harry sighed, and briefly Eggsy wondered if he had failed some sort of test. Perhaps he had, and Harry was realizing that this was all a big mistake, he shouldn’t be here, it was definitely time for Harry to whip out that fancy watch and pretend like this whole night never -

“I see someone who is loyal. Who wants to do what’s right. Someone who wants to do something good with his life.”  _ What _ . “Eggsy, not very long ago I was in a position similar to yours. Well,” Harry rolled his eyes towards the wall, “not necessarily similar, but I too was given a choice. I’m extending that same choice to you. I’m offering you a chance to become a Kingsman.”

“Like, a tailor?” Eggsy was confused, there was  _ no way in hell _ that the man standing next to him was simply a tailor. “Are you having me on?”

“No, Eggsy. A Kingsman  _ agent _ .” He rolled that around in his head for a moment; it made sense, with what happened in the pub.

“Like a spy?” Harry chuckled.

“Of sorts. Before we get going, though, I  _ am _ going to need you to pop up on that wooden horse there for me.” If an extended line of question marks could be an emotion, Eggsy was certainly feeling it, and he was sure it showed in the way his face screwed up at the suggestion.

“ _ What? _ ” Harry regarded him with a completely straight face, and Eggsy searched futilely for any trace of a joke.

“Mount it, give it a swift kick, and shout  _ tally-ho _ .”

Dragging the block out from the hind legs, Eggsy swung his leg over the wide barrel and wondered how the hell he had missed something this size. He looked down at Harry warily, who nodded.

“Tally ho?” Harry shook his head, clearly unimpressed.

“With  _ vigor _ , Eggsy.” Letting out a sigh, Eggsy was fairly positive that he could feel his dignity leaving his body, never to return.

“ _ Tally ho! _ ” When he opened his eyes again, Harry had seated himself in the chair against the opposite wall, wrist nearly in his mouth to stop himself from laughing even harder than he already was. “ _ Harry! _ ”

“By God, you  _ actually _ did it.” Eggsy forced himself down from the horse, not looking at the other man, embarrassed and angry, but also confused.

“Why did you make me do that?” Harry held up a hand, silently asking for a minute to collect himself. “If you don’t give me a good answer I’m gonna walk out that door, and I ain’t coming back.” Harry sighed.

“Two reasons.” He pushed himself up from the chair, joining Eggsy at the mirror again, laughter still playing in his eyes and at the corner of his mouth. Eggsy surprised himself at just how much he wanted to kiss the smirk off of the other man’s face. “Firstly, because it’s always a good, though unorthodox, admittedly, test of whether or not one will follow orders.” Eggsy regarded him with a raised eyebrow, unimpressed with the answer. “Secondly, because I honestly just wanted to see what you would look like on a horse. Lovely thighs, by the way.” Both men, seemingly scripted and on cue, looked down and swallowed thickly. “Regardless, let’s get on with this, shall we?”

Eggsy looked up in time to see Harry press his hand against the glass of the mirror, the floor of the fitting room jolting underneath him as the walls slipped away and the two of them were left passing layer upon layer of brick as they traveled to who knows where. Looking over at Harry out of the corner of his eye, the man was back to business, hands folded neatly behind his back and all traces of mirth gone.

“We were on spies, yeah?”

“Yes. Kingsman has always been a clothier of fine gentlemen, since it’s birth. But after world war one, the staggering loss of life left many a wealthy man without an heir. And so began their other endeavor. Our sole purpose is to protect the innocent, and those who cannot protect themselves. We do the job that nobody else is capable of doing, operating at the highest level of discretion.” Eggsy let out a low whistle. “Indeed.” Harry was quiet, and Eggsy put together that he wasn’t going to say any more on the subject until they arrived.

“How deep does this fucking thing go?” The other man sighed.

“Deep enough, Eggsy.” If he wasn’t mistaken, there was a hint of a smirk playing just at the corner of the other man’s mouth.

The rest of the elevator ride was equal parts surprisingly short and long enough to last an age. Eggsy, for the life of him, couldn’t get Harry to breathe another word until they platform shuddered to a stop, and if he wasn’t just  _ itching _ to get under his skin and figure out what the hell had made him go berserk on Dean’s goons like that. The only time Harry seemed to move was to check his watch, and again to open the door for him when they arrived at the bottom of the shaft. He didn’t even feel like he had time to blink, to take in the white on white pearlescent hallway, before Harry was herding him into a shuttle and telling him to mind his head on the way in.

The tram - train? Shuttle? - ride to wherever the hell it was they were going was equally tense, and for the first time in a long time Eggsy found himself anxiously bouncing his leg as he waited. There wasn’t much to look at, save for the four leather seats and the man across from him. Was it wrong to stare? Probably. Was he going to attempt to covertly do so? Absolutely.

Harry seemed to be staring off into some middle distance, not really looking at Eggsy, and he was honestly beginning to wonder if this was a good idea after all.  _ For all I know he could be some sort of robot. Or maybe he’s not really a spy, just a really well dressed bloke, and I’m actually going to be murdered in some underground bunker and never seen from again _ . Eggsy furrowed his brow, lacing his fingers together.  _ Or maybe he is actually a spy, and I’m still going to die in some underground bunker and never seen from again. _ He shook his head.  _ Fuck I could use a smoke right now _ . It wasn’t that it was a habit, he hardly ever did it, except when he was anxious, or angry, or upset, or stressed, or worried, or - okay. So maybe it  _ was _ a habit, but that was more a product of circumstance than anything else. It wasn’t like he chain smoked. One every so often wouldn’t kill him.

Eggsy could feel the shuttle begin to slow down, the brick whizzing past the windows moving slower and slower until they eventually glided to a stop, and through the glass he could see more white, and more glass, and a heavy aura of  _ you don’t belong here _ . Maybe that was just Dean in the back of his head. The other man coughed as the door slid open with a soft hiss, and Eggsy jerked back into the moment only to realize that he had zoned out as well, and to anyone not privy to his inner thoughts it looked as though he had been staring at Harry’s crotch for the entire ride. Gesturing to the now open door, Eggsy waited for Harry to leave, and took a moment to collect himself before following.

Harry lead Eggsy down the wide hallway and stopped in front of a floor to ceiling window, opening up over a massive hangar full of planes and cars and anything else someone rich and powerful could desire, and Eggsy wondered if he was really cut out for this type of life. The suits, the shoes, the accessories, it wasn’t him.

“You’re father had the same look.” Eggsy couldn’t hide his surprise at the comment. “At least I’m assuming he did.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I wore it as well.” Harry looked down at his watch, and his eyebrows nearly shot up into his hair. “Shit, we’re late.”

The two of them left the main atrium and followed the hallway around so many corners that Eggsy would freely admit that he was so lost and turned around and had he been asked to find his way out he wouldn’t be able to. At last they were standing in front of an open door, greeted by a bald man with a clipboard who definitely was  _ not _ impressed.

“Late again, Galahad.” Eggsy raised an eyebrow.

“My codename.” As if that explained everything.

The man he took to be who was running this whole mess gestured for him to enter the room, and all conversation stopped when he followed him inside. Eggys fell into line with the other cadets, trying to keep control of his nerves as the boys chuckled under their breath and the only two women regarded him with sympathy and concern. He could feel ice creeping under his skin already, and the tests hadn’t even started yet.

“You are about to embark on the most dangerous job interview of your lives.”  _ Fucking hell _ .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sooo sorry this took forever to post and it's so short compared to the other ones, but life got in the way (uni was a mess and there was this whole thing with a soccer camp and I still haven't finished my novel yet) but I'm getting everything organized and on track now so I'm hoping to update this a little bit more regularly. Cheers :)

**Author's Note:**

> Okay originally I had a behemoth of a disclaimer at the beginning but since I've written so much since I actually started I figured an early-2000s fanfiction dot net era author's note was both redundant and insane. So buckle up kiddos, since this is going to get bumpy.  
> Also, I'll be updating the tags as I go because I don't want to give too much away right at the beginning.


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